


following the sun

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6407206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She isn't going to let him get away - not when they can do so much to help each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. everything i do, i do in slow motion

“I understand your preference for other genres, of course. But I’ve always found increased comfort in romance.” Cassandra draws a hand along the line of books and smiles. “ _This_ one is my favorite.”

“ _Swords and Shields?_ It is a medieval tale, yes?” Josephine makes a face as she flips through its pages. “And quite…erotic.”

Cassandra shrugs. “It is not for everyone.” She makes her choice and heads toward the front of the store to pay. A dwarf stands in line behind them, smiling to himself. His gaze is hot on her neck, and Cassandra nearly turns around to ask that he _please_ stop staring – but a register opens and she moves to check out.

The clerk frowns as she slides her card. “Um. Declined, ma’am.”

“No, it shouldn’t be. It’s new.”

“That could be the problem. Sometimes it can take a day or so to start making purchases—”

“Well that is no good.” She takes the card back and begins rummaging through her purse for some cash.

“Do you need money?” Josephine asks.

Cassandra waves her hand. “They are books. It hardly matters—”

“I’ll get it.” Behind them, the dwarf slides through, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “Wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Cassandra scowls. “It would be, actually. Please mind your own business.”

“No, I’m serious.”

Cassandra turns, blocking his view of the register. “So am I.”

The dwarf raises his hands. “Alright, alright. I just wouldn’t want you to be without your, ah, _literature_ for the evening.” He smiles before leaving the store. Cassandra scowls after him, refuses Josephine’s money, and leaves empty handed.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a few years since she held the title, but at her bar they still call her Seeker. Cassandra tries to be there every night, working the tables, making drinks, and keeping everyone happy. She throws out the trouble makers, ID’s kids at the door. Every job is her job, and there isn’t a single one she doesn’t do.

Tuesdays are slow, which is why she finds herself pouring shots for a group of regulars behind the bar, and isn’t paying attention when the door opens and a certain dwarf walks in.

“Can I buy you a drink in your place?” he asks. The voice is unmistakable. She doesn’t stop what she’s doing.

“No.”

“I’ll buy one for myself then.”

“Very well.” She looks at him. “What will you have?”

“Water.”

She frowns. “You are serious.”

“Didn’t we have this conversation already?” He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Just a water, Seeker.”

“I am not—” She makes a noise and shakes her head before setting a glass of water onto a napkin in front of him. “Here.”

“How much?”

“It is _water_ , you idiot dwarf. Take it and go.”

He shakes his head. “I want to buy you something.”

“I don’t _want_ anything from you.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“Exactly.” She waves her hand. “Go. Do not bother me anymore.”

“Come on, there must be something you’ve been wanting.” He takes the cup and tosses it back, draining half of it. “Anything.”

Cassandra frowns. “Why are you being so insistent?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” he says. “And I really did want to buy your books for you.” He shrugs. “Books are important to me. I thought it was a shame you didn’t get yours.”

She sighs. “It was not such a terrible thing. I will live without them for a few more days.”

“But the _need_ is still there. I just…I _have_ to get you something.”

Cassandra sighs. “You can buy me a cat, if you are so insistent.”

The dwarf blinks. “Really?”

“ _No!_ Don’t be ridiculous. Take your water and go. I will survive, I promise you.”

“A cat.”

“No. I do not want a cat.”

“Right.” He nods and finishes his water. “Of course. No cats.”

Cassandra sighs as he goes, cleaning the counter and welcoming in another usual customer who comes in after him. She doesn’t think on the whole thing for the rest of the day, and when she closes up at half-past two, she certainly doesn’t expect him to _be there._

And she certainly doesn’t expect him to be holding a _cage_ in his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m just a boy,” he says.

“No.”

“Standing in front of a girl’s bar, holding the cat she didn’t want—”

“Shut up.”

“Asking her to let me buy her dinner.”

Cassandra chokes, just a bit, and stares. “That…you want to buy me _dinner._ ”

He nods. “I do.”

She sighs, looking between the cat carrier and his face, so open and honest and _kind._

And she smiles, without really meaning to.

“It’s late,” she says.

“I don’t sleep much,” he replies.

“I was going to order dinner for myself, just upstairs.”

He glances up. “You live above your own bar?” She nods. “Shit, woman.”

“If you would like to come up, you can order food for me there.”

“In your apartment.”

She nods. “Yes.”

The dwarf grins. “Only if the cat can come, too.”

 

* * *

 

The moment he opens the door to the little cat carrier, the creature zips out and stashes herself under the couch – and Cassandra grabs this infernal, _frustrating_ dwarf and kisses him.

“This was not part of the offer.”

“The offer has changed,” she says breathlessly, and moans as he backs her right up against the door, his rough hands palming her waist and shoving her shirt up, exposing her to him.

“ _Flexible_ ,” he says, and drags his teeth over her neck, right long her jugular. “I like it.”

“I could show you how flexible I can be,” she murmurs, and he chuckles.

“How about you show me how _loud_ you can get first, and we’ll work on our stretching exercises later.”

Cassandra laughs, her head falling back against the door as his fingers work with the button and zipper of her jeans, pushing them down with her underwear. Cassandra kicks them off, struggling to tug at the belt around his pants, gasping when he _lifts_ her, presses her right up against the door as she shoves his jeans down with her feet.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” she says.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, taking his cock in hand and pushing into her. 

The door has never been quite attached to its hinges, rattling each time she closes it behind her – now, it shakes and trembles with every thrust, the chain of the lock beating against the wood in time with their manic, frantic breaths. He rests his head just above her breasts, panting into her sweat-sticky t-shirt and laughing.

“You feel _amazing_ —” He thrusts in, _hard_ , and Cassandra cries out. “Easy, Seeker.”

“ _More_ ,” she pants. “Maker, _more._ ”

“You want me to come?”

“Yes, _yes_ , I can’t—”

“I’ll help you, I promise. Make you feel good, I swear.” She nods, looking into his eyes as he picks up the pace, struck by how _gentle_ he is, despite the near-viciousness of their union. With a groan, he spills into her, and Cassandra finally feels a chill fall over her, goosebumps rippling her skin. “Shit,” he mutters, and slowly pulls out of her.

Cassandra slides into a graceless heap on the floor.

“Maker take you,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair, brushing damp locks from his forehead. “Hello,” she says, and kisses him.

“Hi.”

“Are you hungry still?”

“Mmm.” He kisses her knee, trails his lips up her slick thighs and laughs. “Sure.”

“Incorrigible,” she murmurs.

“You haven’t come yet.”

“I can wait.” She closes her legs.

“ _Tease_ ,” he says. “Terrible tease.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Perhaps I deserve to know your _name_ before we progress.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I like to have really great wall-sex before I get to know someone, too.” Cassandra pulls a face. “ _Fine._ It’s Varric.”

“Varric.” She tests it and smiles. “I am Cassandra.”

“Mmm. _Cassandra._ ” He pushes her knees apart again and slides his hands along her thighs.

“Food first,” she says, and stands, leaving him by the door.

“Maker’s _balls_ , woman.”

She ignores him as she places her order for the noodle shop up the street, pushing him away each time he comes to her, wrapping his arms around her waist, toying with the hem of her shirt. “Sit _down_ ,” she says. “Find the cat.”

“I did.”

“ _Varric._ ”

After she orders, she fully intends to let him go down on her, right there on the sofa, but they get distracted as he starts exploring her apartment in only his boxers, raiding her fridge for a soda and finding something to eat for the cat. By the time the noodles get there, Cassandra is a mess of laughter as she pays for their dinner and bolts the door shut behind her.

“ _Stop_ ,” she says. “I will _choke._ ”

“On noodles? Spit,” he says. “Or swallow. Your choice.”

“ _Varric!_ ” She tosses her empty carton onto the coffee table. “Must you make _everything_ filthy?”

“I can make anything sound dirty.”

“Oh _really._ ”

“Yeah, try it.”

Cassandra sighs, stretching her legs and settling them into his lap, smiling as he strokes her ankles. “Fine. Traffic jam.”

“ _Traffic jam._ ” His voice grows deeper and _rolls_ through her.

“That was an easy one. Wheat grass smoothie.”

“ _Wheat grass smoothie._ ”

She laughs. “Alright. Tax season.”

Varric raises his brow. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tosses one of her legs onto his shoulder, and settles between her knees. “I want to put my mouth on you,” he says, slowly. “And I want to make you scream.”

Cassandra swallows and nods.

It is only after, when she’s managed to pull him into her bed and wrap her legs around him, that she realizes how quickly she’s fallen, and how hard to might be to claw her way back out.

 

* * *

 

It’s only in the morning, when she’s riding him, his hands cupping her breasts as she gets closer, closer, _closer_ –

She sees it, sitting on her _nightstand_.

His name, in raised, bubbled gold on the edge of her books.

“ _Varric_ —”

“Yeah, come on. Almost there, sweetheart, _almost there_ —” He rolls her over, thrusting faster, frantically, and Cassandra scrambles for one of her books, right before she throws it at his face. “ _Ow!_ ”

She rolls them again, holding him inside her and staring down at him. “You did not _tell me_ you were Varric _Tethras!_ ”

“Fuck, _Cassandra_ —”

“Varric—”

“Come on, come with me, we’re so close.”

She moans, shoving the book into the floor in a desperate scramble for her bedsheets, gripping them tight in her fingers as his hips punch up, once, twice – as he rolls her to her back again and comes with a groan, palm grinding against her clit until she screams.

They collapse, breathing heavy. Cassandra pushes him off of her and sits up on her elbows, scowling. “You failed to _mention_ —”

“Oh, come on, you’re a smart girl.” He kisses her shoulder. “Woman. Whatever.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hey.” He reaches out and cups her cheek. “Does it _change_ anything, Cassandra?”

She sighs. “No. I suppose it does not.”

“Good. Because I wanna do that again before you have to go to work.”

 

* * *

 

He comes and he goes. Cassandra is surprised and thrilled at how quickly she absorbs him into her life. He is endlessly irritating, a rapid thinker, a magnificent lover – an adoring man. He reads to her little things he’s written, will fill her entire fridge with food, and suddenly be gone for days. When he returns, he is still working, still writing. He _ravishes_ her. Cassandra is exhausted.

“He is quite handsome,” Josephine remarks from her place behind the bar. “How very lucky for you.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Oh, but he’s written your _favorite_ novel, does he know?” Cassandra feels her cheeks flush, and Josephine laughs. “How endearing.” She wipes the bar clean and glances at the clock. “I have to run to class.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll tell me more later, yes? Perhaps he could give Cullen some tips,” she says dryly, shaking her head. “Ah, well.”

Cassandra laughs as her friend leaves the bar, cleaning a few empty glasses from the tables. The bell over the door rings, and she turns to greet her customer, instead finding herself pulled into Varric’s embrace.

The glasses hardly tremble in her hands.

“Your balance is so attractive,” he murmurs, kissing her neck.

She laughs, pulling back and setting the mugs on the bar. “Thank you. I thought you were home writing today.”

“Ah, I was,” he says. “But there’s just been a small…hiccup, with my living arrangements.”

“Is something wrong? I know a very good plumber. You already have her number.”

“You do plumbing? Maker, but I _swoon._ ”

She laughs, sitting on one of the stools. “Certainly. Is it something I can help with?”

“Hmm?” He seems to be imagining something, probably filthy. “Oh, no, it’s alright. It’ll…it’ll sort itself out. I just need to call my brother, maybe. Have him do something. He won’t, but it’s worth a shot.”

Cassandra frowns. “Varric, do you _have_ a place to live anymore?”

“Ah. Technically or—”

“ _Varric._ ”

“No,” he says quickly. “I don’t. I got evicted a few days ago.”

“ _A few days ago_ —”

“It’s not really a big deal. I’ve got Daisy’s car, and I don’t sleep much as it is—”

Cassandra holds up a hand, sliding off the stool. “Are you keeping your things in your friend’s car? Does she know?”

“Well, she knows I have it. She’s out of town, and—” He snaps his fingers. “I need to pick her up tomorrow. Unless Hawke does it.”

“Varric.” Cassandra puts her fingers under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “You may not keep your things in someone else’s car. Bring them here, and you may keep them with me, until you sort things out.” She shakes her head. “Why did you get evicted?”

“Because my landlady is a very nice woman, but her patience just ran out.” He sniffs. “I, uh. I suck. At paying my rent.”

“Do you need money—”

He snorts. “No, I definitely don’t need that. I have plenty of it. I mean, a lot of it’s tied up, but that’s because it has to be. But I have the money for the rent. I just…can’t pay it.”

“I pay my rent automatically, can’t you—”

“I was doing that, but sometimes I would spend it up. My landlady started coming by, asking for it in an envelope. And it was working, until I just…couldn’t do that. She’d come to the door and I’d worry and think I couldn’t give it to her. Or I wouldn’t have drawn the cash, or written the check.” He closes his eyes. “I know it sounds stupid to you. I know paying your rent is something that _you_ can do, easy, but—”

“Varric.” Cassandra leans down and kisses him. “I do not think it’s stupid. Sometimes, the easy things can be very hard. I will help you, if you’d like. But you cannot live in your friend’s car. That, I will insist on.”

“Shit,” he mutters. “I am so fucking lucky.”

“Yes, well, you could be luckier if you’d hurry up.” She walks toward her office in the back. “It should be empty in here for another hour, at least.”

Varric groans, shoving the door open to go get his things.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, Varric, you could live in my car any time you would like.” Merrill smiles, taking a sip of her wine. Cassandra is incredibly confused. “Thank you for coming to get me. And introducing me to your new friend.”

“She’s a lifesaver, Daisy, I’m telling you.”

“You have so many people like that. Does Hawke know—”

“No,” Varric says quickly. “She doesn’t. Don’t worry about that. And, uh, don’t tell her.”

Merrill frowns, now. “You haven’t fixed things? I’ve been gone for days, Varric.”

“It’s…been a lot longer than that since we fucked things up.”

She sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. Hawke cares for you very much, she’ll be very worried when she doesn’t find you at home.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Do you mean…Marian Hawke, the woman in your play?”

Merrill smiles. “Yes! She was. Did you see it? It was very good, wasn’t it? Varric is so talented, we are all so proud of him. Hawke is our friend, and she’s Varric’s _best_ friend, but Varric—”

“You should go home,” Varric says, prying the wine glass from her fingers. “Rest up. It’s that jetlag. Scrambles your brain.”

“Yes, well.” Merrill stiffens. “I am right.” Then: “I am, aren’t I?”

Varric winces. “You’re…not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not. Because I am right.” She kisses his cheek. “I will talk to Hawke tomorrow.”

“Daisy, please—”

“It will be for the best, you’ll see.”

“Maybe one more glass,” Varric insists, but the little elf is already out the door, waving over her shoulder. “Well, shit.”

Cassandra leans forward. “What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing!” he says. “It’s fine, everything is fine.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “It absolutely is. But it’s necessary. You don’t need to hear all the stupid shit that happened between me and Hawke.”

“I don’t understand—”

“It was just a fight,” Varric explains. “Just a little thing.”

“But if she—”

“And now we’re not speaking,” he says. “It’s easier this way.”

Cassandra groans. “Varric, _why?_ ”

“ _Because I asked her not to!_ ” he shouts, slamming his fist on the bar.

Cassandra flinches.

Varric swallows, just as Cassandra takes a step back without even thinking.

“Seeker, I—” He shakes his head. “I need to go.”

“No, Varric—”

“I’ll…I’ll be back later. I promise.” He drops his head and ducks out, disappearing into the crowd of people crossing the street.

 

* * *

 

She is sleeping when he slides into bed with her. The feel of him beside her is…a _relief._

“Varric—”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Varric, where—”

“I shouldn’t have taken off, I’m sorry.”

She shivers, burrowing further under her blanket. “Hold me,” she says, and feels his arms wrap tight around her.

 

* * *

 

Hawke never shows. She and Varric meet, he says, and she knows where he’s staying, but she doesn’t come to the bar, or the apartment. Varric settles in, and it only takes a few days for Cassandra to grow used to having him around. He spends the day writing, usually, or bickering with his editor, or editing things that have been emailed to him. Backlog, he calls it. Overdue debts. He owes a hundred people who helped him get where he is now.

“When they need something,” he explains, “I try to help.”

“It’s very honorable of you,” Cassandra says, and kisses his forehead.

She’s seen no more outbursts since that day, though the startled, uncertain feeling remains. What she does not know sometimes haunts her when she is standing behind the bar, in line at the bank, listening to Josephine complain about Cullen or her sisters.

She wishes Leliana were there, more now than she has in so long. Leliana would claim to know best, though Cassandra would certainly disagree. It would be a spirited debate, that she knws. She smiles as she climbs the stairs from the bar, closed and silent behind her, imagining how that discussion might unfold. She intends to tell Varric about it – he’s taken to setting up his space at the kitchen table, sometimes ordering something, sometimes whisking her off to a hole in the wall that never seems to close. Cassandra unlocks the door – but everything inside is dark.

“Varric?” She shuts the door behind her, setting her things on the coffee table and moving through the apartment. “Varric, are you here?” She turns on the lamp in the bedroom –

And there he is, buried under her blankets, completely and totally asleep.

“Finally,” she murmurs, leaning down and kissing his temple. “I knew I would wear you out sooner or later, my love.” She brushes the hair from his forehead, strips out of her clothes, and slides under the sheets. He is always warm, and it’s only one of a dozen things she thinks that she loves about him already. Her heart is often a few steps ahead of her brain, but with this, with _him_ , Cassandra knows – she isn’t wrong about how she feels. She isn’t wrong about _this._


	2. take everyone you love and write them down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've added it to the tags, but for your reference there is some abuse in this chapter, along with some discussion of mental illness and implied/referenced suicide.

Here’s the funny thing about being an accident –

Everyone treats you like one.

 

* * *

 

“ _Dammit_ , Ilsa, not in front of the boys!”

“You _promised_ me!” she screams. “You _promised!_ ”

“Circumstances have changed. We don’t have one child anymore, we have two. We have to reconsider—”

“If you didn’t want the boy you should have said so in the first place,” she snaps. Varric flinches from his hiding place under the stairs.

Andvar Tethras doesn’t move. Varric has never seen his father hit his mother, and he doesn’t think he’ll do it now. But the _anger_ – it is so pure, so _raw_ that he almost expects the strike to come.

It doesn’t, but the sentiment remains the rest of his father’s days.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t his earliest memory, but every time Varric smells fresh cut grass, he remembers his father’s funeral. The scent is pungent, permeating the image of his father’s casket being lowered into the ground, overpowering the scent of his mother’s perfume, his brother’s cologne. After, his brother’s car smells like stale cigarettes, and his mother leans her head against the window, her foundation leaving a crisp mark on the glass.

“We should call the accountant,” she says.

Bartrand grunts. “It can wait, ma.”

“It won’t. Things will continue as normally as possible.” She turns her gaze toward her youngest in the backseat. “Are you crying?”

“No, mama.”

“Good. It doesn’t help, you know.” She settles back into her seat. “It never helps.”

Of all the things she says that day, those are the words that _stick._ Varric doesn’t cry, after that. What is there to cry over, he thinks, when the worst of it has already happened? He had never heard his father say he loved him, but it was _there_ , somehow. He could feel it. Or he thought he could. Even as a child, he wonders if the emotion is manufactured, by his own memory or by his actual father. It lingers through the years, stagnates where it should not. But it does fade, like most things do, with time.

It fades, and it is replaced by something entirely different.

 

* * *

 

“Varric is incredibly bright, Mrs. Tethras.”

“I know this.”

“Have you seen some of his writings? They’re quite good. This one, here.”

“I do not need convincing that my son is intelligent. If that was the sole purpose of this meeting, then I think we’re done.”

Varric teacher smiles kindly. She is a good woman, sweet and clever, and Varric likes her. He likes her a great deal. She is, so many times, his refuge from home. He wishes he could tell her that.

“That isn’t why I asked you come in, Mrs. Tethras, though it’s an added benefit,” she says, taking back the papers. “Varric struggles to make friends, did you know this?”

Ilsa raises a brow. “I did not.”

“He can be very quiet. Some of the other boys, they tease him.”

“He’s the only dwarf in this school. I imagine it isn’t always easy.”

“Of course. I only wonder…I know you lost your husband, a few years ago. I wonder if Varric might benefit from speaking to a counselor. Here, or in private. I could recommend several in the city—”

“My _son_ does not need the services of an elevated _quack_ , my dear. He is perfectly capable of handling things on his own, which he _will_ be doing from now on.” She stands and takes her things. “I appreciate your concern. But it will not be necessary gain. Come, Varric.”

Varric nods, sliding out of his chair and following his mother out the door. In the car, she grasps him by his collar, forcing him to look at her.

“ _Mama_ —”

“If I am called into your school because you don’t have the gall to make _friends_ , or because your teacher thinks you are too _quiet_ ever again, I will pull you out and toss you into one of those wretched hovels in Lowtown to finish your education. _Do you understand me?_ ”

“I do, mama.”

“Good.” She lets go of his collar and sighs, leaning back against her seat. “I know that it’s been hard. I know that, sweetheart.” Her tone is gentler, now. She reaches and takes his hand in her own. “But you must be _resilient._ You are your father’s son, still. And mine. That is something you should _never_ forget.” She starts the car. “Bartrand will be out for the night. Perhaps you and I should go somewhere for dinner, hmm? Do something nice for ourselves. You will promise to make friends for me, won’t you Varric?”

“Yes, mama.”

She smiles. “That’s good. You’re always so good, Varric. Never be anything different. You’ll promise me that as well?”

He nods. “I promise, mama.”

“That’s my boy,” she murmurs, and cups his cheek.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Ilsa hands the entirety of her late husband’s business dealings over to her eldest, and remains at home. And when Varric is not at school, it becomes his only responsibility, entirely unspoken, to care for her. Some days, he soon realizes, are easier than others.

She is different all the time. Leaving work behind frees her, and there are days when she will keep her son home from school and they’ll walk the city, having ice cream for lunch and buying whatever catches her eye. Varric has done as she asked – he is clever, popular, and nearly prolific in school. His mysterious disappearances intrigue his peers, and he keeps them hanging, weaving a dozen or more stories about what he could possibly be getting up to. In this, he becomes a practiced story teller, though his teachers prefer to call it what it is.

“ _Lying_ ,” his headmistress says, folding her arms over her chest. “You are _not_ the son of a celebrated film actress, as you told Miss Pennyforth this morning. You are _not_ the illegitimate child of Hesher Writt, who is a figment of your _own_ imagination, Mr. Tethras. You are not a spy, you are not an advisor to the Viscount, and you are _not_ above the rules in this school.”

His mother is absent for this meeting. Instead, Bartrand is there, and he is _furious._

“I am _terribly_ sorry, ma’am. My mother, she sometimes pulls the boy from school. I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“See to it, Bartrand. It would be a shame to spoil the good name you yourself left behind.”

Bartrand nods, gesturing for Varric to follow him.

In the car, he smacks his little brother across the face.

“I don’t have _time_ to babysit you _and_ mother, do you understand that?”

Varric scowls. “No, because you don’t do _either._ I’m the one taking care of her. I’m the one who’s at home all the time.”

“Then get this under control.”

“I can’t!” Varric insists. “She changes all the time. One day she wants to dig up the flower beds. Another she wants to buy a damn _car!_ ”

“Don’t swear, you’re thirteen.”

“Oh, shove it,” Varric snaps. “You weren’t home last week. She wouldn’t even get out of bed. She wouldn’t _eat._ I called you eleven times—”

Bartrand grips the steering wheel before he tears out of the parking lot. “I do _not_ have time to deal with this.”

“Terribly sorry to inconvenience you,” Varric mutters, rubbing his cheek. It’ll bruise, later, but that’s nothing new. They ride in silence before reaching the house. Varric drags his backpack along the driveway after kicking the door shut. The front door to the house is unlocked, which surprises them both as they go inside. “ _Ma?_ ” Varric calls out, dropping his things in the foyer. “Ma, you here?”

“ _In the kitchen._ ”

Bartrand frowns. “What the fuck is she doing in the kitchen?” He pushes open the swinging doors. The smell of…something hits them both. “ _Shit._ ”

“I made us dinner,” she says. “Sit, both of you.” She drops a heavy pot on the table. Varric spots a good many things that have been sitting in the fridge for a while. “I just had to clean the place up. You know there’s a book that will tell you what you can make with the random things in your pantry?”

Bartrand makes a face. “Mother, this smells—”

“ _Amazing_ ,” Varric says. “It looks incredible. Did you put some of the sage we’ve been growing outside in here?”

“I _did_ ,” she says, kissing the top of his head. “You are so clever, dear. So very clever.”

“Clever enough to get into trouble at school,” Bartrand mutters, spooning some of the stuff and letting it plop back into the bowl. “You can’t pull him out anymore, mother. He’s going to get kicked out.”

“Is that true, Varric?”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Well, we’ll just…we’ll take our trips in the evening then, won’t we? Or Sunday. I think I’d like to visit the Chantry sometimes.”

Bartrand snorts. “That sounds like it’d work out _swell_ , mother.”

“What, like a dwarf can’t be Andrastian?” she asks.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Varric says. He puts a hefty spoonful of the soup in his mouth, fighting to swallow it. “Good work, ma.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Bartrand, do you want some wine?”

Bartrand chokes on his soup, coughing until tears run down his cheeks. “ _Stones_ , yes.”

It’s an easy day, despite the kitchen debacle. Bartrand helps clean the dishes, and promises to order them both something later, but Varric shrugs. “There’s ice cream in the freezer,” he says. His brother immediately digs it out. “I told you,” he adds. “She does this sometimes.”

“This is hardly something to be concerned about,” Bartrand says around his spoon. “I need to go,” he mutters, tossing the carton back into the freezer. “Don’t skip school again. I’m not spending anymore on tuition than we already have to. And _don’t_ let her go to the fucking Chantry, understand me? We don’t need that. Her going out and buying up half the clothes in town is bad enough already.” He puts a hand on Varric’s shoulder. “Take care of this, you understand me?”

“Yeah.” Varric shrugs him off. “I understand.”

 

* * *

 

Bartrand promises to be there more, but it’s a lie. It’s always a lie. He promises to come when Varric calls, but it’s a lie, too. He doesn’t pick up the phone, that day in spring, just after Varric’s sixteenth birthday, when his mother has been in bed for six days in a row. He doesn’t pick up when Varric comes home from school and finds her throwing picture frames at the wall. He doesn’t pick up when she seems to change in a second, collapsing into the arm chair and weeping uncontrollably.

“I’ve ruined it,” she says. “My wedding photo, it’s ruined.”

“No,” Varric says, easing the broken from her hand. “It’s good. We’ll get new frames this weekend, alright?”

“You’d do that with me?”

“Mama, I’ll do anything with you.”

She nods. “Of course you will. You’ll read me some of that story, too, won’t you? The one you’re writing?”

“Sure. You go upstairs and clean up, I’ll take care of this.”

Bartrand does call back, but not the morning after when their mother becomes so angry with the breakfast she’s been made that she strikes her son across the face.

He calls later, when she is helping Varric patch the cut she’s left on his cheek, crying and apologizing, hands shaking as she drops the cotton swabs and switches bandaids for bourbon. But Varric doesn’t pick up. He’s busy prying the bottle from her hands.

“It’s so early, ma.”

“Just a sip. You can have one, too.”

“I don’t need one, and neither do you.” He manages to take it from her. He will not be so successful the next time. Or the next.

 

* * *

 

She’s only in the hospital once. Bartrand isn’t picking up the phone, and Varric…Varric is _scared._

His brother does show up to make sure no one knows she’s there. A rumor like that, he says, could wreck whatever deal he’s in the middle of securing. Millions on the line, Varric. Can’t have people thinking we’re a family of lunatics.

 _Aren’t we?_ Varric doesn’t ask. His mother is sleeping in the backseat, and he wants to curl up in a ball and sleep and maybe never wake up.

She is angry about the hospital, but it goes away just as soon as it appears. Bartrand leaves them there.

“If she does this again, I know a place where we can send her.”

“We’re not _sending her away_ ,” Varric shouts.

Bartrand grabs his shirt. “You want to deal with this forever?”

“She’s our mother. We can’t just drop her off somewhere—”

Bartrand shakes his head. “You’ve got this image of her built up. You think she’s helpless. She’s manipulating you, just like she manipulated our father, manipulated the business. She’s got you thinking she’s Andrastian, going to service every week, _praying_ to the fucking _Maker._ Like that’ll do any good. She’s got you all wound up, and you can’t see.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Varric snaps, shoving his brother back.

“You’ll be in college next year. You really want things to be the way they are now?” Bartrand straightens his jacket. “If you ever have her checked into the hospital again, I will be the one to make arrangements. Understand?”

Varric closes his eyes.

“ _I understand._ ”

 

* * *

 

He stays home when he finally starts at the university. Bartrand offers to get him his own place close to campus, but Varric declines. It’s better, he thinks, if _he’s_ the one watching her. Someone Bartrand hires might tell him she needs to go to a facility –

Might tell him she needs an elevated _quack._

She doesn’t. Varric doesn’t. Together, they need a grand total of nothing, and that’s the best possible outcome.

But he’s worried. The time she spends in bed becomes longer and longer. This time, it’s six days, and Varric is worried. He’s been going to services with his mother for a few years now. So he calls the only person he can think of – and the Revered Mother, she does come. She brings a doctor.

“Ilsa?” It’s the first time she’s stirred in days. The Mother smiles. “My dear, are you well?”

“Mother—”

“I have brought someone, someone I trust. A doctor.”

“N-no—”

“He has the Maker’s blessing, Ilsa. He only wants what is best for you.”

Varric lingers in the doorway, wringing his hands. His mother seems to emerge from her cocoon of blankets and sheets.

“When was the last time you ate, Ilsa?”

“I…”

“She took some soup,” Varric says. “Just last night. Not much, but some.”

“Any pain?”

“No,” she says. “There is nothing. Nothing…inside me.”

The Mother takes her hand. “Ilsa—”

“She needs something to eat,” the doctor says. “You, boy, come with me and we’ll make her something.” The doctor follows Varric downstairs and into the kitchen. He makes his mother a sandwich. They don’t have much. “Is your mother seeing a therapist?”

“No.”

“Is she on any anti-depressants?”

Varric frowns. “No. I don’t…is she sick? Is something wrong?”

“I’d like to check her into the hospital,” the doctor says, searching the cabinets for a plate.

“You can’t. Bartrand—”

The doctor snorts. “I know your brother. We went to school together. I’ll deal with him myself, if you’d like, but your mother needs serious medical attention. I’m worried for her safety.” He pauses. “And yours, Varric.”

“I’m doing fine. We’re both fine—”

The doctor smiles kindly. “I understand that you’re afraid, Varric. But your mother needs to be cared for. You’ve done the best you can do, I see that. And I see that you love her. But you’re a boy, and she is a very sick woman. You have exhausted your capabilities. Please, let me take care of her.”

Varric feels the plate being pried from his hands, but not much else.

“You…you’ll make her well again?”

“I will find the people who can do that, but you must trust me.”

Varric breathes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

 

* * *

 

“ _How could you take her out like that?_ ”

Bartrand is trying to make a phone call. Varric is _screaming._

“ _She needs help! She needs help and you don’t fucking care, you don’t—_ ” Bartrand strikes him, but Varric isn’t a little boy anymore.

He hits _back_.

The phone clatters onto the kitchen counter, the sound of the dial tone blaring in the kitchen. Bartrand appears to be in shock.

“She needs to go _back_ ,” Varric says.

“No.” Bartrand surges forward, grasping Varric’s shirt in his hands. “She needs to go _away._ That’s enough of this.”

“You don’t love her. You never did—”

“Did you know, before _you_ came along, that I could count on one hand the number of times that woman said she loved me? And I would run out of fingers before I finished telling you the times she said she wished I’d never been born.” Bartrand lets go of his brother. “You’re the one she loves, so you’re the one who can’t understand. You were the _accident_ she had to take care of. You grew on her, _like fungus._ And now, you think you know what’s best? You’re a child, Varric. Go. Sit with her if you’d like. She’s leaving this house, and so are you.” He turns and picks up the phone again, making the call.

Varric trembles. His vision is white, closing in on itself. His resolve folds. He understands the desire to climb into bed and, perhaps, never leave it.

He goes up the stairs, and wonders if he could steal his mother away.

He goes up the stairs, and wonders why he didn’t think of that _sooner._

“Ma?” He pushes open the door to her bedroom. “Mama, it’s me. I might call the Mother again, she might be able to help—” He stops, glancing at the bed. His mother is not there. Strange, that she would move now. Perhaps Bartrand will see, call off the whole thing. “Ma, are you—”

Varric doesn’t remember screaming. Bartrand will tell him later that the noise almost made him piss his pants. That he threw the phone down and took the stairs two, three at a time, and found them both there.

Bartrand will tell him, later, that it took three paramedics to drag Varric out of the bathroom, and six days for him to say another word.


End file.
